


Sympathy

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Canon Compliant, Domestic, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Early in Canon, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Holmes is actually a sweetheart, London Underground, M/M, Nice Sherlock, One Shot, Orphans, POV John Watson, Poverty, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 16:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18854842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: In which Watson writes a recount of Holmes's kindness.





	Sympathy

Sherlock Holmes sometimes reminded me of John Milton.   
Not that he bore a particular physical resemblance to the man, but that he spoke in some similarly fantastic ways—he took evil and chaos and the nature of the human soul and spoke of them with strange beauty.   
He was like a poet himself in many ways, though he would never dare admit it. He viewed himself as an inhuman being, limited but strictly reasonable. Of course, no human could reach perfect reason, and even he himself fell short sometimes, in cases I never cared to pen.   
But he was, indeed, human in every way imaginable, perhaps more human than the average Englishman. He had a certain sympathy for the poor and weak, defending those who could not defend themselves. It made me wonder often if this sympathy was related to his past—still so shrouded in mystery to me in those early years of our friendship—or if he was simply kinder because he saw it as virtuous (it was something he sometimes complimented me on as well).   
I decided I would put my “theory” to the test, as was his own method, to see if he would divulge more about himself.   
Looking back upon it, it was a strange thing to do, but I was so young then, and so utterly enchanted by him, I daresay I would do anything just to learn a scrap more about him.   
  
I needn't look for a willing participant, for my “test” (more a prompt, really) didn't even have to be a charade. London is a city littered with the needy, overcome by the slums of the poor leaking into the world of the rich. Young people with dirty faces and torn, muddy garments for clothes walked beside men silver watches and women with diamond hat pins.   
Of course, not all those who begged needed too. Some made a career of it (you may recall such one case in “The Man with the Twisted Lip) or used it as a side revenue to fuel their habit of drink or opium. It was usually easy to tell which were which.   
It happened that we were returning from dinner one night when I spotted a particularly small, young boy crouched in a corner of the Strand with a tin can. He couldn't have been more than 10 or eleven years young, and I can't pretend I didn't feel for him myself. Life can end up an unlucky lot to some—nothing more. No bad choices or mischief. Just poor luck.  
“Is that one of your boys, Holmes?” I asked, drawing his attention to the boy. I was referring, of course, to the Baker Street Irregulars (although in truth I already knew all of their faces by now, and most of their names).   
“No,” Holmes said with some surprise, stopping in his path to observe the child. He suddenly made a beeline for the corner, and I followed hastily after him.   
The boy looked apprehensive as we approached, and perhaps contemplated fleeing, but stood his ground nonetheless.   
“What is your name, young man?” Holmes said breezily.   
“James, sir.”   
“Have you got a second name?”   
“No sir, just the one, sir.”   
Holmes thought for a moment, his eyes sweeping the child again, hunting for more clues. He got that look upon his face he often got during cases—that look of acute observation and focus.   
“You haven't got a family, young James?” he said astutely.   
“No sir,” James said.   
“Father drank?”   
“Yes sir.”   
“Mother dead?”   
“Yes sir.” The boys eyes widened. “Don't send me to the orphanage sir, please—“   
“Don't trouble yourself,” Holmes said. “I would like to make you a proposal.”   
James nodded eagerly.  
“Yes sir?”   
Holmes knelt down to his level.   
“I would like, very much, James, if you were to come by 221b Baker Street, every week, and I shall give you one pound per week. Does that sound fair?”   
The boys eyes looked like moons.   
“Yessir, of course sir, but what kind of work shall I do?”   
Holmes gave this another moment of contemplation. The boy was too young for most of our Irregulars' errands.   
“You will give yourself a last name,” Holmes decided. “And you will buy new clothes and look for an apprenticeship so that you may learn a trade and make your name worth something. Is this agreed?”   
He shed his glove, sticking out his hand.   
James eagerly shook it.   
“Thank you sir! I-I will!”   
“Good. When you come to Baker Street next Tuesday, I expect to hear your new name.”   
He gave the boy a one pound note, and we walked home.   
  
I waited until after Holmes had smoked his second pipe before addressing him on the subject of the boy.   
“That was a kind thing you did, my dear fellow?”   
“Hmm? Oh yes.” He opened his eyes, smoke drawling from his lips and clouding his serene face. “Thank you, Watson.”   
“I have noticed you often take pity on such people.”   
Something about this caught suddenly his attention. He looked intensely at me for several seconds, then burst into a fit of laughter.   
“Oh, my dear Watson,” he chuckled. “Forgive me for my amusement. I see now, everything is quite clear.”   
I reddened, embarrassed that he had seen through my plan.   
“You thought I struggled, hmm? Perhaps as a child?”   
I nodded, face still hot. Holmes sat back, smile still faint.   
“It is not an unjust notion to have, old man, and I see how you came to it. But no, I myself have never had the misfortune of resorting to such practices.”   
I looked at him, bemused.   
“But Holmes, if you weren't in poverty yourself—“   
“Then why do I help them?”   
I nodded.   
Holmes raised his pipe to his lips, taking a thoughtful puff.   
“Not everyone has had the opportunities I have, Watson. If I can offer someone who does not have my privileges a chance at fresh start, or nudge them in the right direction, I will do so. It is just money after all, and I live for the work.”   
It was a Holmesien-answer indeed, unconventional, honest. One of the many things I loved him for.   
“It is noble of you, Holmes, whatever the reason,” I said genuinely. A smile crept across his lips, as it always did in my praise of him.   
“It is nothing, dear fellow. Would you mind if I played a few airs?”   
I encouraged him gladly, and watched the firelight dance upon his features for the remainder of the night.   


 


End file.
